Chapter 12 - The Woman in the White Suit
By noon, the front lawn of our quiet Greenwich home was crawling with private security and reporters.
Somehow, the sealed legal filing had leaked to the tabloids before my attorneys even received their electronic summons. The headlines were savage, crafted specifically to trigger internet outrage:
“From Humble Housewife to Corporate Usurper: Did the Morrison Heiress Steal a Forgotten Daughter's Inheritance?”
"It's a smear campaign," Liam said, pacing back and forth across my home office, cell phone pressed to his ear. "Our PR team is trying to issue takedowns, but the bot farms are pushing it across every social platform. They’re manufacturing public outrage to force the probate judge to issue an immediate injunction."
I sat behind my mahogany desk, keeping my breathing slow and steady. When I was pregnant with Lila, Diane’s constant psychological cruelty had nearly induced premature labor. I had promised myself I would never let another Morrison intimidate me while carrying a child.
"Arthur," I said, my voice level. "Who signed the proxy for the Zurich firm?"
Before Arthur could answer, the office door clicked open. Our chief of security, a former Secret Service agent named Vance, stepped in.
"Ma'am, there is a woman at the main gate. She arrived in an armored Maybach with state escort plates. She refused to speak with the police officers out front. She says her name is Victoria, and she is here to collect her daughter's toys."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Victoria?"
"Brendan’s first wife," Arthur whispered, the color draining completely from his skin. "The one they claimed died in a car crash in Milan eight years ago."
The room spun for a fraction of a second. Brendan had told me, during our first year of marriage, that his first wife had perished in Europe long before he met me. He had used that fabricated grief to make me feel like I was a replacement, an unworthy substitute for a refined European socialite.
"Let her in," I ordered Vance.
Ten minutes later, the double doors parted.
The woman who walked into my study wore a tailored ivory cashmere coat and dark designer shades. When she removed the glasses, her cold, aristocratic blue eyes locked onto mine. She looked barely thirty-five, sharp, immaculate, and dangerous.
She didn't look at Liam. She didn't look at Arthur. She looked directly at my swollen belly, a smirk playing on her lips.
"So you're the little bird who took down Diane," Victoria said, her voice smooth like crushed velvet. "I have to applaud you. The old witch deserved every single day of that ten-year sentence."
"Who are you?" Liam demanded, stepping forward.
May you like
Victoria pulled a black leather checkbook from her handbag and tossed it onto my desk.
"I'm the mother of the real Morrison heir. The boy Brendan hid in a boarding school in Lausanne before he married you to harvest your trust fund. And as of eight this morning, my son holds the controlling majority of the ancestral trust. You have forty-eight hours to vacate this property, darling."
